


Arkham Minds

by Twisted_Slinky



Series: Those Who Catch Madmen [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Criminal Minds
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Slinky/pseuds/Twisted_Slinky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when the madmen are running the madhouse? Dr. Spencer Reid and Agent Aaron Hotcher find out when they return to Gotham to visit Arkham Asylum. Spencer's been at the Joker's mercy before, but after the asylum goes on lockdown with the agents trapped inside with the inmates, he finds that this particular madman might be his key to surviving. Criminal Minds/Batman (Dark Knight) crossover, sequel to For Laughs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wake Up With a Smile

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: This is set after my story [For Laughs](http://archiveofourown.org/works/360694/chapters/584917), but this can be read as a stand-alone if you wish. Its setting is after The Dark Knight, but with no references to The Dark Knight Rises. While it's a Nolan-verse crossover, it is also inspired by other Batman comic and cartoon storylines. For Criminal Minds, the story is set right after Gideon's departure and before Rossi's arrival (so, season 3, pre-episode 6 sometime).
> 
> I want to point out that this scenario requires a "this isn't in any way realistic" disclaimer, because we all know this wouldn't happen in any real facility. Also, forgive me for tweaking so many random characters from the Batman universe, but I hope you enjoy their adjusted (Nolan-ized) stories.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds or anything related to the Batman universe. I also do not own any quotes from Alice's Adventures In Wonderland.

  


_'But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked._   
_'Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: 'we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.'_   
_'How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice._   
_'You must be,' said the Cat, 'or you wouldn't have come here.'_

* * *

Even in his dreams, Dr. Spencer Reid was a man of logic, ever questioning the current state of his surroundings. Because it made no sense, not really, that he'd be standing in a pitch black bathroom, yet still be able to see himself in the mirror above the equally lit but unlit sink. Likewise, he knew without a doubt that he'd never felt the pain of the scars on his face, yet there they were, the evidence of his mutilation, in the reflection.

He reached up, touching his cheeks but not really registering the feel of the lumped, pink line of butchered tissue.

"This is a dream," he said, to himself.

But it wasn't a reassurance. It was a joke, met with a smile in the reflection. His very own permanent smile.

"This is a dream," he whispered again. This time it came out more jovial, the grin in his very voice, so genuine.

It needed to be gone. It needed to stop.

Somewhere in the darkness, a clown chuckled: _"Admit it, Doctor Reid. Deep down you're a freak, just like me."_

Spencer reached up, clasping his head between his hands, clawing his fingernails into the skin. They dug deeper than he expected, wet droplets tickling his scalp, then splattering on the white sink below. But he didn't let go. Instead, he only curled his fingers in tighter and pulled down. A wet rip sounded as his face peeled off his skull, the pitter-patter of blood like rain in his ears.

_"Kiddo, you're a hoot."_

The noise woke him. He could have told himself it was more likely snores than laughter that had awoken him, left his throat sore from use and a cold sweat on his brow. But that would be a lie. He pushed himself up, sliding his legs off the mattress, and hesitated there, on the edge of the bed, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers as he tried to get his bearings. Outside, a late summer rain was falling.

Each drop pinging dully against the small balcony, like blood on a sink.

He repressed a shiver by pushing himself up onto his feet and crossing the distance to the sliding glass door, but he didn't look out at the city past the curtains. He knew, from memory, exactly what he'd see. Gotham by morning was just as gothic and looming from the condominiums next to the river as it had been from downtown, just as gray and dank in the summer as it had been last time he was here, in the winter. Thankfully, though, it wasn't as cold.

The tap on the door startled him, but Spencer recovered quickly. "Just a minute."

Hotch was standing in the short hallway, still in his sweats, and despite the early hour, his gaze was alert. Spencer wondered if the agent had heard him having the nightmare.

"How did you sleep?" Hotch asked.

Spencer shrugged, then gave the room an awkward half smile. The bed was plush, welcoming in its unmade form, and covered in linens that probably cost as much as Spencer's entire wardrobe.

"Bruce really spares no expense," he answered.

Hotch let out a short huff of agreement, but he didn't comment on the fact that the condo should have been far outside their allotted price range. Spencer had taken up Bruce Wayne's offer of hospitality before he'd known Agent Hotchner would be joining him in his interviews at Arkham Asylum, and when the older agent had been told where they were staying, Spencer had almost expected him to argue the point. Instead, Hotch had given him a narrow look, as if trying to read his expression, before dropping the subject.

Spencer knew his team had never been certain of the true identity of Gotham's vigilante, the Batman. But he also knew that they'd never really tried to find out. Not by the end. And when Spencer had made his statements, after he'd been interviewed by the board, they'd all pretended to believe that Spencer didn't know who was wearing the mask.

He was sure that they, much like Commissioner Jim Gordon, didn't want to know. Knowing would mean having to act. At this point, they all owed the vigilante too much to want to have to choose between doing their jobs and doing the right thing.

For Spencer, though, it was no choice at all, and he was sure J.J. at least felt the same, even if she didn't bear that burden of knowledge. After all, both of them had been saved by Batman when they'd been kidnapped by two equally crazed but vastly different madmen during their last case in the city.

Without realizing it, Spencer reached up with one hand, touching the small crescent moon shaped scar along his hairline, where the Joker had once dug his thumb nail into the delicate skin there, promising to make him 'the man without a face'. There was a matching mark on the other side of his scalp. Just a few of the many small _souvenirs_ the clown left on his body to help him remember his first trip to Gotham. Not that he needed a bit of help in that department.

Things could have been much worse, he knew. Somehow that realization was always more of a horror than a relief.

The memory must have showed on Spencer's face, because he saw Hotch take an aborted step forward before catching himself.

"I'm fine," Spencer said, before the question could be asked.

Hotch didn't look convinced. "It's not necessary that you return to Arkham. Your interview yesterday didn't indicate that the Joker would be any more forthcoming today."

"The interview you've been waiting for is in two hours," Spencer reminded him.

"I know." The frown on his face said that Hotch wasn't looking forward to his visit. "And it's one I can't miss, unfortunately. However, that doesn't mean you have to attend. I can handle the Falcone assessment on my own. Why don't you call Mr. Wayne so you can reschedule your proposal for today?"

Spencer tried not to flinch. He'd blurted out the excuse for contacting Bruce while they were in Gotham, but it wasn't entirely a lie. The billionaire playboy was also a philanthropist with an interest in psychology and medicine, and Spencer had wanted to bring up some ideas concerning a fundraiser for an alternative city sanitarium while he was visiting. That, however, required actually meeting with Bruce again. Spencer had taken enough sideways looks from his team when he'd requested the interviews with the Joker, but Bruce, or should he say 'Batman', because that seemed to be the personality who'd answered his phone call, had been bluntly against it, despite offering to put him up while he was in the city.

_"You're one of his victims."_ He'd heard that from so many people, he was getting sick of the words. As if that was the reason he shouldn't be there, in a room with _him_ again. As if that was supposed to mean he couldn't do his job.

Maybe they were right. Spencer was almost certain the Joker was playing a game with him, promising to tell him where the body of one of his many random victims was stowed if he returned again ( _"oh, it's a funny story, kiddo - a real gut-buster"_ ), but the profiler had his own reasons for wanting to continue the interview. He hated that most of those reasons centered around curiosity.

"I'm going," Spencer said. He stared past Hotch, at the wall behind him, where a framed picture of Gotham's cityscape was hanging on the wall, gray-scaled and a perfect match to the apartment's overly-modern décor. It seemed there was no real escaping the view. Spencer let out a tired chuckle. "You know, it would make sense, that we'd visit the asylum each time we're in Gotham, considering the city's founders."

Hotch raised a brow in question.

"Not much is known about the earliest history of Gotham Village, only that it originated in the seventeen century, and that there's a rather famous myth about its founding." Spencer leaned against the frame of the door, eyes still glued on the picture. He wondered if there was anything behind it. One of the Batman's secret weapon lockers - he was certain the vigilante had them planted all over the city. "The first dwelling in the village was an asylum. It was supposed to be a chapel, but a sanatorium was built instead. Rumor has it, the change was made after the village's first two residents were implicated in a series of murders. One of them used his partner as a scapegoat, committing him to the asylum he so charitably had built."

"Is the story true?"

"Which part?" Spencer asked. He shrugged one shoulder in reply. "That Gotham was founded on murder and madness or that an asylum has always been at its heart?"

"We should leave in an hour if we're going to make our schedule." Hotch stared at him a moment longer before shaking his head. "I made breakfast. At least get a bite to eat before we leave."

"Thanks, Hotch."

Spencer shut the door as soon as the man turned, then leaned his weight into it. One more time. He'd see the Joker one last time. Because a part of him had to.

He wanted to help the Joker remember how he got those scars, and he needed to know if it was true, if murdering madmen were simply drawn to this place, like moths to a flame. Despite being a man of logic, Dr. Reid believed that, maybe, they were.

* * *

This was her world, and she knew her place in it. That is to say, on top. Above all the rest, as was her birthright as The Roman's eldest, and, it was her long overdue duty as heir to take back her father's throne.

The sounds of fists meeting flesh were becoming a bit too rhythmic, and she was growing bored, waiting for her boys to finish. Taking a deep draw off the end of her tortoise shell cigarette holder, she tapped the slender tube between two gloved fingers, leaving a trail of ash in her wake as she stepped away from the town car.

Her thick heels clicked loudly against the cement floor, but all other noise ceased at her appearance.

Two men remained on their knees, breathing heavily through broken noses and busted lips. Her flunkies moved behind them, holding them up by their collars.

"Gentlemen," she said, loathing and smoke dripping from her dark berry-stained lips.

The biggest between the pair of beaten sacks of flesh looked up at her through one swollen eye, sneering enough for her to see the bloody gap where his front teeth used to be. "We ain't tellin' you nuthin', you big ugly bitch."

Sofia's face didn't betray her amusement. She took no offense to what some street rat had to say, but she did enjoy the edge of fear in his voice. She knew her appearance, and her reputation, had that effect on people. Sofia was under no illusion concerning her own beauty, and she was thankful that she'd been born without the delicacy that so many of the pathetic socialites with which she was forced to mingle prized in their women. No, she was tall, and thick, and powerful, in every aspect.

Her recent marriage to Rocco had been a good fit, not just for business, but for the addition of his descriptive surname: _Gigante_. If these pitiful second-rate crime lords thought that the name Falcone was done-for since her father's fall from power, they'd at least have a new name to learn to fear.

"Oh?" she said. "So, you won't be telling me that you're working for Rupert Thorne, then?"

The beaten thug winced. "We don't work for no Thorne - "

"Quiet," she ordered and let out a slow sigh when the second man folded forward, spitting up a puddle of bile and blood. "Your boss thinks he can take over where Sal Maroni left off, does he? Well, Maroni's dead, gentlemen, and the Roman may have fallen, but a Falcone is back on the throne. Thorne thinks he can move product into my city without running it past me? I'm afraid he's gravely mistaken."

The more talkative of the pair was pulled up a bit straighter. He swallowed hard, losing a bit of his cockiness. "I'll give 'em your message."

This time she did smile. "That's unnecessary. I think I'd rather speak to him directly."

She gave her boys a nod and turned her back. The flick of a knife's blade and a wet choke joined the sound of her clicking heels. Her driver opened the door for her and she folded her over-sized body back into the town car just as her phone buzzed from inside her purse.

She pulled it free with a frown. Her good mood was quickly disappearing as the sound of a Russian accent filled her ear.

_"I hear news of your father, Sofia. There is word that the Roman is not as crazy as he appears. What do you suppose will happen to our new agreement if my people find out a sane Carmine Falcone is being questioned by the FBI?"_

"I didn't take you for a gossip, Anatoli."

_"Your father's recovery is making many people very nervous. If it's true, we need to know if it's…being handled."_

She took another draw off her cigarette, biting back her annoyance. "It doesn't matter if it's true, my friend. Arrangements have already been made. This time tomorrow, my father will no longer be a problem."

_"And you will also have claimed his former seat in front of the other families as your own. How convenient for you."_ The man on the line chuckled softly. _"Well played, Sofia. I'll be sure to send my condolences."_

Sofia slipped her phone back into her purse and stared out the tinted window at the warehouse district as the car rolled away from it. The smoke of her cigarette left a bitter taste in her mouth. "My kingdom," she muttered, her hard face stoic. "The king is dead, long live the queen."

* * *

The halls of the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane were haunted, at least by some definition of the word. Without a doubt, they had seen murder and mayhem, and they were quiet but never _silent_ , always filled with the muffled sounds of both the victims and the villains of those crimes. Only, the ghosts still lived, locked in their rooms, drugged, forgotten.

Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner had not, until this week, had a reason to visit the asylum, but he now understood why both Gideon and Reid had been so shaken during their last case in Gotham, after they'd both been sent to the sanitarium to investigate the escape of the Joker. To his regret, the team's paperwork documenting the asylum's questionable records, methods, and security did little good, but for one change. Where in the past the BAU had not been able to successfully schedule interviews with the inmates of Arkham, during this visit both Agent Hotchner and Dr. Reid had been permitted as much time as necessary.

"Spooky place, isn't it?"

Hotch gave the security officer to his side a glance. It was the same escort he'd had the previous day, a wide-shouldered African American man who seemed to have a decent respect for his post. Which was saying something, considering the disgruntled guards he'd met on his way in. Dangerous and underpaying, the position obviously wasn't to be prized amongst Gotham's working class.

"There's nothing here worth being afraid of," the man, Cash, added.

Hotch knew the officer was attempting to comfort him, and he imagined that most of the guests who visited the island probably needed the reassurance. And perhaps he did as well. It was easy to imagine one getting lost down the maze of hallways in this old wing of the asylum, the building containing the Intense Treatment ward. The usual interview room in the medical wing had been more modern, less brick and mortar, and there were more basic comforts for the visiting agents. Their guns weren't far away, at the entry gate, and they'd been allowed their phones. Hotch knew his favorite technical guru, Garcia, would by gleeful if she knew that her boss felt naked without that tiny chunk of technology at his side. Its confiscation only intensified the dread sense of being lost that Arkham created.

And Hotch was certain that, if he was fighting off that feeling, Reid was likely ten times as anxious. Especially with his mother's mental health history.

"You'll be escorting me to Falcone?" he asked, instead of disagreeing with Officer Cash.

Cash nodded, jutting his chin out at the three walking a few yards in front of them, a stocky orderly twice the size of most the guards, followed by Spencer and the psychiatrist currently overseeing the Joker's treatment. She was younger than Hotch had expected for such a high profile case, but with Reid on his team, he knew better than to make assumptions about her qualifications. As if she'd heard his thoughts, the blond woman glanced over her shoulder at the agent, smiling reassuringly.

"Turner will be with Dr. Reid and Dr. Quinzel. A pair of officers will be on watch while they're working too. One wrong move and Turner's been given permission to sedate the Joker, whether Dr. Reid is finished with him or not."

"Good." Hotch kept his voice low, hoping to not be overheard by the group. "I notice the guards stick close to the other personnel. Is that a requirement?"

"Is on my watch," Cash replied, just as quietly. "But especially here. This ward isn't usually where these sort of interviews are conducted. It's inmate quarters mostly, for those in intensive treatment. The dangerous ones."

Hotch had noticed. The day before, they'd been at the front of the medical facility, in a secured room, much like the interrogation and visitation rooms he'd been to in the past. "What's changed?"

Cash snorted. "Apparently the Joker didn't want to get out of bed this morning. Dr. Quinzel talked the director into letting the interview be moved to a more 'comfortable location' for the clown." He lifted the taser gun out of its belt holster slightly. "But there's nothing to worry about, Agent Hotchner. The inmate'll be restrained the entire time, and he's not that much threat without something sharp and pointy. Your man will be safe during the visit."

Somehow the officer's body language wasn't very comforting, but Hotch didn't comment on it.

Hotch had met with the new temporary medical director, Dr. Joan Leland, the previous day, and he'd quickly established that she ruled by the handbook, a quality which was lacking in her predecessors. She'd made it very clear that an agent from the FBI was there only because powers greater than herself had pulled the right strings and asked him to provide an accurate outside assessment on Carmine Falcone's improving mental health, and she'd been rather blunt about her thoughts on the matter. Hotch had respected her almost instantly, but he couldn't help but wonder why someone so rigid with procedure had allowed Dr. Reid unlimited time to interview the Joker.

Dr. Leland had shifted the conversation when he'd phrased that as a question, and Hotch had his answer. The administrator, Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, must have signed off on the requests. Since Arkham would be overseeing the Falcone interview directly, Hotch hoped to have the chance to speak to the man afterward. He'd read up on Dr. Arkham after the last riot in the asylum and something about the man's statement, not to mention the asylum's colorful history under his administrative rule, had been off-putting.

Hotch hadn't told Dr. Reid that he'd tried to get his interview with the Joker withdrawn. He was sure Spencer was already well aware of what his team thought of this trip. The younger man didn't need another reason to doubt himself. Hotch could only hope that Reid found answers to whatever questions he really needed to ask, and that the asking didn't damage Reid's mental health in the process.

The group up ahead had come to a stop in front of the last room down the corridor, and as Hotch caught up, he could hear Dr. Quinzel speaking to Reid about their visit. Her bright blue eyes were wide with more than professional excitement as she leaned closer to the door.

Reid stared at her, lips parted slight, as if he were looking for an opportunity to cut her off, and Hotch couldn't help the slight curve of his mouth. Reid had been blushing when he'd mentioned the psychiatrist's eagerness to work with him on the Joker's case; it looked as if the BAU's youngest had yet to shake off the woman's enthusiasm.

Hotch caught Reid's eye, giving him a short nod. He wanted to offer to stay for the interview, but he already knew what Reid's answer would be.

Still, Hotch felt a wave of protectiveness surface in him. His wife, Hailey, had left just a few months ago, taking with her his little Jack. His real family was breaking away from him, and after Elle, then Gideon…he didn't want to see his team, his other family, fracture just as easily. He wasn't the kind of man to admit as much, or to let the dread he was feeling show on his face, but it was there, a sense of foreboding: _Reid can never forget what the Joker did._

Reid peaked out from behind the orderly and gave Hotch a tight-lipped smile, his own nerves showing in the tightening of his throat as he swallowed deeply. "See you in two hours," he said, quietly.

Hotch nodded and turned to follow Officer Cash up a short set of steps, past a security check-point door, and down the next corridor, one just as haunted as the last.

"Where will Falcone be moved for the assessment?" Hotch asked, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder.

"Dr. Arkham has an office in this wing, so he can meet with inmates currently undergoing intensive treatment. He asked that Mr. Falcone be moved there." The small shake of Cash's head seemed to indicate that he didn't think much of the administrator, but Hotch was too distracted to question it.

Something about this wasn't right. Morgan was usually the one to point out that instinct was there for a reason, and at the moment, Hotch was sure every hair on the back of his neck was standing.

This time Hotch did look over his shoulder, and he came to a full stop as he did. He watched the empty hallway behind him, staring at the corner, where it turned off into the corridor where he'd left Reid. Even through the security door, he could still hear a murmur, the slightly pitched sound of Dr. Quinzel's voice. A moment later, there was the metallic click of a door shutting in the distance and her voice was muted, but another voice replaced it, a man's. It sounded loud. Angry.

Hotch's brow wrinkled in thought.

"Officer, didn't you say two guards would be arriving for Dr. Reid's interview?"

Cash followed his gaze. "Turner can handle it on his own." But he said it with a frown. "You're right, though. The guys were supposed be making their way here from their patrol around the ward." He glanced down at his watch. "Their route was supposed to end five minutes ago. They should have met them at the door…That sounds like Turner shouting something..."

Hotch listened closely a split second longer. Cash was right - the sound in the distance had evolved into shouts. "The Joker wouldn't leave his room," he said, almost to himself. Then he started to move again, in the direction that they'd just left. Cash was at his side, not stopping to question him. In fact, the other man seemed to pick up speed, drawing a few steps ahead so he could get to the keypad.

Until the moment a siren sounded. A rolling red light flashed from the upper corner of the wall. Both men paused, surprised by the alarm. Then, just as quickly as it had began, the siren died. Along with every light and alarm in the corridor, leaving the pair standing in complete darkness.

* * *

The door was like every other door down the corridor, steel standing between two brick walls, the small window above the locked food tray slat at its center just like every other window in every other door. It was what, _who_ , was behind it that distracted Spencer.

Inside, the lighting was dim. Most of the quarters were the same. The patients, the inmates, seemed to prefer the shadows to the too-bright sterility of the examination and group rooms. Spencer could make out the features of the room but just barely. The single bed was close to one side wall, and at its farthest corner sat a figure, hunched forward slightly, legs pulled up and crossed. It was too dark inside for Spencer to see the man's features, but he could remember them well, those puckered scars, painted over to form a constant, mocking grin, despite the murder in their owner's eyes.

Spencer swallowed hard. He knew Hotch was only a few yards away. It wasn't too late to call him back, ask him to stay. But he held back the urge.

"…Despite the lack of personal history on file, I'd venture to say that the Joker is the most fascinating inmate currently residing at Arkham. You know how it is - people would kill for a chance to work on a case like his. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity."

Spencer realized that Dr. Quinzel wasn't finished speaking, but he cut her off, his brow wrinkled when he turned to face her. "Yesterday, he told me you provided him with the make-up."

Dr. Quinzel blinked up at him from over her reading glasses, her blue eyes wide, and she pressed the patient file she'd been reviewing to her chest. "You don't agree with my choice…" The disappointment in her voice was clear, but she recovered quickly, her answer coming out sharp and her slight Brooklyn accent becoming a bit more pronounced. "Yes, I gave it to him, Dr. Reid. If you'd seen him during his first few months here, without it, you might understand why I made that decision."

"What was he like during those months?"

She glanced away, at the window he'd been staring through, a frown on her face. "He lost his sense of humor," she said, softly.

There was a time when Spencer wouldn't have been able to contain his own thoughts, when he would have automatically spouted out the exact nature of her fascination with the Joker and noted that her efforts were in vain, that she'd never be able to _fix_ the Joker. When he would have pointed out that beneath her smart, friendly exterior, she was ambitious to the point of obsessing over her current study - a quality that could, if it hadn't already, lead her to a dark place. A quality the Joker would find _amusing_.

No wonder the Joker seemed to like his new doctor. She was providing him all the entertainment he could stand. How many of his scar stories had he told her? Or had he just picked one, a tale to capture her sympathy, make her believe all his pieces could be put back together again? Spencer winced at the thought - he'd been in her shoes before.

But Spencer didn't comment on her treatment or warn her to stop. Not yet. He was too distracted by what was in front of him.

Dr. Quinzel pressed a button beside the keypad, and the hollow sound of static dead air followed a click. She leaned into the speaker beside the door. "Mr. Joker, this is Dr. Quinzel and Dr. Reid. We're here for your interview. Please stay on the far side of the room."

Past the door's window, the Joker didn't move from his cross-legged pose.

Dr. Quinzel released the button. Another click, and then she turned back to Spencer. "Not that he has a choice," she reassured. "Dr. Leland insists we keep them restrained during anything outside of their daily schedules, especially visits." She flashed another of her girlish smiles, lowering her voice. "I think it's a bit extreme, what with the extra security, but gotta make the boss happy, don't we?"

Spencer didn't think it was extreme enough. He swallowed hard, then cocked his head in thought.

"Where are the guards?" he asked, the words little more than a whisper, as if he thought the Joker might hear him from inside. As soon as he voiced the question, it nudged at something in his memory, some factoid trying to get his attention.

Dr. Quinzel was too focused to hear him. She muttered something to Turner, the burly orderly beside her, about sedatives while typing a number into the keypad. The door release was louder than the intercom.

Dr. Quinzel stepped inside and Spencer followed, instinctively. The orderly's towering shadow fell over his back as the man waited at the doorway. A fleeting, ghostly touch on his spine made Reid stop, though, and he knew better than to ignore that chill. Before the woman in front of him moved closer to the cot, before she ever sucked in a breath of shock, Spencer had already realized what was wrong with this picture:

_The guards_ \- his eyes widened in horror. He'd noted the guards' schedule the day before, in passing, and his memory had tucked away the random piece of information. If that sign-in was correct, the guards should have been finished with their route before any visitors arrived down this corridor. Because they were the ones who, as Dr. Quinzel pointed out, had to restrain the patient.

He didn't have to see what she'd just seen. He knew that wasn't the Joker sitting on the bed.

The ghostly touch became more solid, fingers gripping on to the back of his sweater vest and jerking. He tripped over his feet and hit the wall beside the door hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. The door slammed shut, Turner's massive fists pounding against it almost as soon as the lock clicked into place.

Spencer let out a gasping breath, slipping down onto one knee, where he could see the body of a man laying beside him, just out of sight from the room's small window. Hidden, just like his attacker had been. It was still, plastic cuffs on the wrists, and wearing a security uniform - after a second's beat, the officer's body shifted slightly with the deep breath of the unconscious. Spencer let out his own breath of relief and turned, seeing Dr. Quinzel perched on the edge of the bed, fingers against the neck of the figure they'd thought was the Joker - from this angle, Spencer could see that the patient's jumpsuit was right, but the body inside it was wrong. When the woman pulled her hand away, it covered in something dark, liquid, but she was calmer than she had a right to be.

The other guard, he guessed, was also still alive.

A foot nudged his leg, and Spencer's pulse jumped. The air rushed out of him, shaky, and he could hear the orderly outside the door swearing as the keypad let out an offending tune. But, at the moment, Turner might as well have been a mile away, because Spencer knew who was wearing those glossy black shoes that had just tapped him.

He lifted his chin, staring up, and the Joker was staring down at him, face painted white, smile a smear of red, and faded green in his wild hair. The shadows hid his eyes from sight. The clown was perfectly still a moment before he let out a bored sigh and used the taser gun in his hand to wipe imaginary dust off of the shoulder of the security guard uniform he was wearing.

Spencer shrunk down against the wall. "Joker."

The Joker's grin widened. He cocked his head, voice pitched high with amusement when he spoke. "Hey, kiddo. Glad you could, _ehh,_ make it." He straightened, his voice chipper. "And just in time, too."

Spencer's mouth opened, but before he could reply, the dim light above blinked once and disappeared, leaving him in total darkness.

* * *

It was time.

His eyes were closed, but he could feel it, the moment the lights went out. It was a wave of energy, passing over him. His calling, making itself known.

He sat in the blackness of his room, staring at it, in search, and he stayed that way until a dim red glow outside the small window of his door lit the space in front of him, announcing that the system had been reset. A round of clicks sounded, starting at one end of the corridor, reaching his door, and moving on to the next, like falling dominoes. It was the locking mechanism, releasing as the security system rebooted. Just as he'd been told it would.

He smiled.

The expression was genuine. For Victor Zsasz, it had been too long since he'd been able to carve another scar into his skin, rid the world of another useless zombie just waiting for his blade.

He reached down into his cot, pulling free a small piece of sharpened metal, and then stood.

It was time.

 


	2. Lockdown

The camera panned, showing gray sky and the shadowed shapes of structures before it rested on what was a familiar form for the people of Gotham. The Narrows, and the asylum within its seedy remains, almost looked like the skeleton of some ancient beast with its reaching, broken buildings and its shining fences, growing out like bony limbs from its core. There was no smoke billowing from its rooftops, no terrifying messages left in flames. The insane didn't flood out in droves to attack the masses, and, yet, all who spotted the image of the island, displayed on the old television behind a pane of glass, stopped in their tracks.

Alfred didn't notice the small crowd that had gathered around him on the sidewalk, watching the three televisions flashing back at them through the window of the shop. If asked, he wouldn't have been able to recall what kind of store it was that he was staring at with such rapt attention, because his eyes were glued to the center screen, where white on black captioning was replaying the voice of the news anchor in the helicopter.

_"Breaking news! Disturbance at Arkham Asylum. Early reports give no indication of injuries - "_

The cameraman's helicopter seemed to hover after breaking from its chosen path, then began to circle the location instead of moving closer. Showing new angles, tiny uniformed men who looked like mice in a labyrinth. Showing no clues as to what was going on inside the buildings, but for the weapons in their hands. Alfred, nevertheless, reached for the cell phone inside his pocket.

_"Just in! New reports are coming in about a system malfunction in one ward of the asylum. This is a security concern, but we're being told that measures have already been taken to insure the safety of all those inside and outside the asylum. A lockdown is in effect at Arkham Asylum. We'll bring you developing news as it happens, but first, back to the newsroom. Jordan, you have former head of security of Arkham on the line to give us a bit of insight concerning what measures are taken immediately following a situation like this…"_

The image switched from the view of Arkham to a young African American woman in a split screen with a balding, prune of a man. The change was enough to stir Alfred into action. He pushed his way out of the crowd watching the news, pressing a number into the phone.

Before the man on the receiving end could answer, Alfred snapped out his own greeting. "Let me guess, Master Bruce - our young Dr. Reid was scheduled to spend today inside Arkham Asylum, picking the brains of inmates? Yes, well, you might want to turn on the television…"

* * *

Spencer lost himself in the darkness.

He was back, in the toy factory where the Joker had once kept him tied to an assembly line. He was back, in the cabin where Tobias Hankel had once kept him tied to a chair. He was back, waiting for his own death, but he couldn't tell if it was burning fish hearts or burning rubber babies he could smell. Or maybe it was just blood.

A woman screamed, and then was cut off, just as terrifyingly fast - _was that J.J.?_ Spencer thought. _Victor Zsasz, he has her again_ , _and I can't help her._ Then the room was cast in red. Blood it was, then.

It took another second for Spencer to remember to breath, to realize that the weight on his chest wasn't from restraints or his captor. It was suffocation, panic induced. He shook once, his whole body trembling, before he fully collected himself and his hand moved for his gun. It wasn't there - no weapons, no jewelry, no cell phones, in this ward of the asylum.

Just as quickly as panic had taken him, clarity washed him free of it. His wide, observant eyes took in the room: the Joker wasn't at his side any longer. He was across the room, standing behind Dr. Quinzel with a hand over the woman's mouth, a cooing _Shhh_ the only sound coming from their side of the room. She must have made the scream he'd heard. It was still too dark to see features, but Spencer imagined the Joker giving him a wink, noting that they both needed to be quiet.

Spencer obeyed, cataloging what he knew was happening instead of moving.

That red glow coming from the hallway...Those were back-up lights. They shouldn't have been triggered unless all power was out or the security system was being reset. The click he'd heard when they'd come on, that was the door release, which should never have sounded in either case. Something was very wrong here.

And, the orderly waiting outside, who'd been pounding his fists on the door a moment earlier, wasn't rushing inside. Wasn't calling out. Instead, there was a roar from the corridor, steady like the hum of a rainstorm, until it began to fragment, break apart into individual voices, individual screams and wild cries.

The doors had opened. That was the sound of the inmates down the corridor rushing out of their rooms in mad joy. That was the sound of running patients, patients in Intensive Treatment...the darkest minds in Gotham. There were at least two more corridors filled to half capacity in this wing alone. And what about the rest of the asylum? The rest of Gotham? What had happened? Spencer hated not knowing.

Spencer pushed himself up, slowly, seeing the shadowy figures of Dr. Quinzel and the Joker stiffen as they watched him move. He lifted a surrendering hand, letting them know he wasn't going anywhere, but turned his head, glancing through the sliver of an opening at the window.

He spotted the orderly, but he wasn't where he expected him to be - _he's leaving us_.

From the window, he could see Turner's back as the man, suddenly mute and on a mission, stood at the end of the hallway, where the next security check was waiting, a door between one side of the wing and the next. His meaty hands fumbled for the keypad, but even in the distance, Reid could see that it was unlit. Turner jerked at the handle, nevertheless, his lips shaped to form a muttered litany of _'no-no-no-notyet-notyet_ '.

Spencer's brow wrinkled in confusion. The patient doors had opened but not that one security door. The question didn't have time to form.

Figures rushed past Spencer's window, dressed in inmate uniforms. He couldn't see what happened next, but he could hear it, a cry for help, wet punches and rabid tearing of clothing as the patients found and attacked the orderly.

Spencer could taste his own heartbeat: Hotch was past that door. Was the next corridor open? Was Hotch in the middle of this?

"Enjoying the show, boy genius?"

The Joker's call came out as more of a whisper. Spencer slipped away from the door, awkwardly clenching his hands against his sides since there was nothing else he could grab. His eyes darted down to the unconscious guard at his side. He still couldn't see the man well enough to know what his injuries were; he still couldn't see if there was a weapon left on him.

When he looked up, the Joker had the taser gun pointed in his direction. He aimed, but instead of firing, he tilted the nose up, motioning for him to come closer.

As a criminal profiler, Spencer knew one thing for certain about the Joker - he was, as he proclaimed to be, an unpredictable agent of chaos. As the madman's former kidnapping victim, however, Spencer also knew the Joker enjoyed having an audience. The longer he could entertain, or be entertained, the longer they would stay alive.

And at the moment, Spencer, the guards, Dr. Quinzel…they stood a much better chance as playthings for the Joker than they did in the riot outside.

Spencer stepped up, and the Joker let his hand fall from Dr. Quinzel's mouth. She took in a few ragged breaths but didn't so much as whimper. Instead, she collapsed down onto the edge of the bed, beside the guard who'd served as the Joker's bait. Now that he was close enough, Spencer could see the poor man. He was middle aged, Latino, and not sitting up of his own free will. Plastic restraints and a belt had been looped through his arms and legs, forcing him to sit in his cross-legged pose. The man was teetering on consciousness, an open head wound covering half his face with blood, eyes too swollen to open, lip torn in the fierce beating that had driven him to submission.

Spencer had felt the Joker's brutal fists before. His pulse sped up at the sight.

As if he could hear Spencer's thoughts, the Joker let out a chuckle, much lower than his usual manic laugh, and threw an arm around Spencer's shoulders. The sound of a _tut-tut_ in his ear made him wince.

"Now, now, Dr. Reid," the Joker whispered, too low for the others to catch, "I thought you didn't feel sorry for criminals in pain? Isn't that why you didn't so much as flinch when you shot me?"

Spencer swallowed. "If I wanted you in pain, I would have aimed higher than your ankle."

The burst of laughter was cut off. The Joker stifled it like a child caught giggling in class, but he gave the agent a pointed look and a chiding grin. "Don't get me, uh, _tickled_ , kiddo. We don't want the _crazies_ outside to hear us, do we?"

The weight of the Joker's arm lifted, and Spencer turned to face him. "You called the guards criminals."

"Just as quick as ever," the Joker noted. "Bet you want to know what I know, don't you, Spence?"

Spencer frowned. "You didn't make this happen, did you? This wasn't you."

The Joker cocked his head, eyes mocking and innocent. "Oh, no, uh, Dr. Reid - haven't you heard? I'm recovering from my _evil_ ways…" He jerked his chin in Dr. Quinzel's direction and gave Spencer a wink - _play along, kiddo_. "But you know what a _gossip_ I am - I just love to hear a good scheme unfold, so I can, uh, do my civic duty and report wrongdoings."

"What do you know?"

The Joker tapped the taser gun's cartridge against Spencer's chest, reminding him that he was the one holding a weapon. Spencer had no doubt that it wasn't the Joker's only one - in fact, if he had to guess, he'd consider the taser more a toy. Spencer glanced down, trying to make out the Joker's belt in the dim lighting. He could see a shape on the side of it, a baton. There had to be more.

A tap of the gun on his chin made Spencer lift his gaze again.

"None of that, kiddo. Sit," the Joker encouraged, "stay a spell. We've got _loads_ of catching up to do." He leaned in closer, grin wide. "And it would, uh, be in in your best interest to keep me occupied while we wait out the crowd, now wouldn't it?"

* * *

Five seconds.

Commissioner Jim Gordon cradled his head between his hands, elbows digging into the pile of paperwork on his desk, and tried to take five seconds to push down the conversation he'd just had with Barbara. His wife, for now at least.

_"You can't just take them from me, Barbara. It's one thing for you to be mad at me…But the kids - they shouldn't be without their father."_

_"They already are, Jim. You're the only one who hasn't realized that. And it's not forever. Just, we need the space, Jim. We both know that. With James Jr. acting out…There's not a tenant in your brother's old place right now, so we're free to use it. I'll be moving back to Chicago before the school term begins."_

_"For how long."_

_"It's a separation. Not a divorce."_

That wasn't an answer.

He could lie to himself, say that this was the beginning of the end, but he knew it had started somewhere sooner. Maybe the day he let her believe he was dead. He couldn't be sure. A part of him, though, knew he should have seen this coming.

"Get it together, Gordon," he muttered to himself. There wasn't time for thoughts like those. His wife might be leaving him, but his city wasn't going anywhere. And his city needed him right now.

He'd tried and failed to keep the news from Arkham under wraps, but the local networks were willing to throw enough money around to find leaks wherever they might be. Gordon sometimes hated his job as commissioner; it meant mending fences and stopping media frenzies instead of being on the frontline. And sometimes he failed at that.

It wasn't a complete disaster. Heavens knew, this city had seen worse. This was barely a drop in the bucket compared to the last time there'd been an incident at the asylum, when the Joker had been at large while the inmates ran free on the grounds. Still, whenever the name Arkham appeared in a news report, people paid attention. _People panicked._

Gordon raised his head, getting back to work.

The problem was contained, from what his men on the ground were reporting, but that didn't mean there weren't lives at stake inside the building itself. His people were still trying to get better intel on what exactly had happened. And how many civilians might be trapped inside.

The ring of his phone made him grimace. He picked it up quickly, expecting it to be the mayor again, demanding an update, but it was another familiar voice instead.

_"Commissioner Gordon, this is Agent Derek Morgan with the BAU."_

"I know who the hell you are, kid," Gordon replied, a hint of a smile in his voice. "And for the record, I only have one Derek Morgan in my address book. Why so formal?" A sigh on the other end wasn't the response he was hoping for, and his old frown came back with a vengeance. "Derek?"

_"Sorry…Sorry, Jim. We're just wound a bit tight here. The Batman called us, not ten minutes ago. He told us about the situation in Arkham."_

Gordon froze. The Bat had been quiet of late, that was for certain, and it was no surprise that Batman would already know about Arkham, but Gordon couldn't wrap his mind around why the vigilante would have called Derek Morgan of all people. The situation in Arkham wasn't good, but they didn't need the Feds involved. "Come again?"

_"He said I needed to call you before we arrived."_ The sound of movement was a rattle over the line. _"Jim, Agent Hotchner and Dr. Reid are inside the asylum right now. In the wing that's locked down. They were there for inmate interviews."_

"Christ…" Gordon ran his hand beneath his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. "Derek, this is bad. I'll admit as much, but you need to trust my people. We've got this handled. As far as we can tell, there was just a malfunction in the security system. We're locked out and they're locked in, but that doesn't mean they're necessarily in danger."

_"We're not coming in officially, but we are coming. I trust you - I do - but this is my team. You fight me on this, and we'll make it official - federal agents being held hostage is a federal problem, Jim. And like you said, you don't know what's going on inside."_

Jim shook his head. "I'll see you soon," he said, biting down his frustration. He hung up, cursing under his breath. "And here I thought this might be simple…"

* * *

His mouth tasted like pennies. Hotch's brow attempted to furrow at that thought but was stopped by the slick surface his face was currently planted against. He tried to open his eyes and his world spun, but he pushed up, onto his elbows, resisting the urge to collapse back down. A foot slammed against his back and took the choice from him.

He choked on the blood from his busted gum, then remembered how it had gotten that way - the blackout, then the chime of the doors opening. He'd been too focused on getting to the security door with Officer Cash to hear the man who stepped out of the closest room, tackling him to the ground.

Aaron rolled onto his side, reaching back just in time to deflect the foot and grab his attacker's ankle. The inmate slipped, hitting the tiled floor beside Hotch hard.

A soft thud and a crackle of electricity followed the fall and the man collapsed, convulsing, two wires running down to the dart-like projectiles embedded in his chest. Hotch looked up to see Officer Cash standing a few feet away, another inmate a moaning mess at his feet and his taser gun still raised. He quickly ejected the cartridge, pulling an extra out of the holder at his side and popping it into place at the end of the gun.

"We need to move, Agent Hotchner," he said, his voice hushed. "Can you stand on your own?"

Hotch pushed himself onto his feet, ignoring the flash of pain at his temple. He had a dozen questions on the tip of his tongue, but he kept quiet, realizing they were still in danger. The hallway made an L up ahead, and the sounds of movement and cat-calls echoed off the walls.

Cash jerked his head to the side, and Hotch followed his lead, slipping into the closest room. The security officer followed him, shutting the unfortunately unlocked door. They both slid down to one knee beside the door, heads leaning in, to listen to the corridor. The sounds didn't get any closer. Hotch realized, with some relief, that most of the rooms at this end of the corridor must have been currently unoccupied.

"Before you ask, I don't know what the hell's goin' on," Cash whispered.

Hotch lowered his voice as well. "The security check point?"

"Tried it when the first guy attacked. It's the only door that isn't unlocked, far as I can tell," Cash spat. He shook his head, nostrils flared in anger. "Which means we're on lockdown. This whole place has been upgraded over the past few years - hasn't done much to help, if you ask me, but if there's a breach, the security doors and the outer doors are supposed to lock. The patient doors are on another system."

"And I can assume they're not supposed to open after a power outage?"

"No. Never." Cash grew quiet, then shook his head. "Radioed in right before we entered the wing. I didn't want to worry you then, but half the officers on duty were in the Narrows, said their was a possible disturbance. Now I'm thinking that was a distraction. It's too much of a coincidence that these doors opened right as most of our officers left their posts."

Hotch saw the realization cross the man's face. They both realized, then, that this couldn't have been an accident and there were likely outside forces at work. And inside forces, for that matter. Someone had put this together expertly. "Your radio still working?"

"Busted by the guy who came at me, but if this job was organized, there's a good chance the signal would have been blocked anyway."

Hotch raised himself up, checking the sight outside the door's window. All clear but for the two currently moaning on the floor. "Do you know if the rest of the wing was affected?"

Cash's frown deepened. "I…Through the check point door I saw the orderly we'd left with your agent, right before he was -" He cut off, shaking his head once again. "I didn't see Dr. Reid or Dr. Quinzel, but their corridor was definitely opened when ours was. I don't know about the rest of the facility. I'm sorry."

The apology was sincere enough, but Hotch couldn't appreciate it. Every thought that ran through is head was deflected by the loudest one: where the Hell was Reid? Hotch clenched his jaw, then nodded once to himself. Dr. Reid wasn't helpless and he was likely the smartest person in this building. If Cash hadn't seen him, it was probably because he was in hiding, just as they currently were.

Hotch stared out the window one more time. "The two outside are beginning to move. They won't stay off their feet much longer. You know this side of the wing, Officer Cash. Where can we go?"

Cash licked his bottom lip, thinking. "Same place we were already headed. The administrator. Dr. Arkham. I told you he has a secondary office in this wing? The man has a panic room there, I'm sure of it. Even if he doesn't, the place locks up tight."

"How do we get there?"

Cash let out a soft, bitter chuckle. "Easy. We get past the twenty or so patients around that corner."

Aaron was straight-faced as ever. He nodded, as if this were a viable plan, then cracked open their door. "How many cartridges do you have left?"

"Three. Plus my pepper spray - Dr. Leland made us stop carrying firearms inside the facility. Sounded like a good idea at the time. Not so much anymore. You have a plan, Agent Hotchner?"

Aaron stepped out into the hallway without another word, his gaze set on the inmate who'd attacked him.

* * *

For once, Special Agent Emily Prentiss was happy to be stuck in the backseat. No doubt, the two detectives who'd met the team at the airport had probably expected the members of the BAU to split, at least one of them riding in the other rental. Instead the three of them had taken the SUV for themselves. They needed the time to be together as a team.

Since they hadn't been called in officially, or even given permission to leave until they were halfway to Gotham, they'd taken the first flight out. Agent Jareau had pulled some strings to get them booked so quickly, but even with J.J.'s efforts, the travel itself had cut into their timetable. Between the ride there and the flight itself, they'd lost nearly two hours. Good time by some standards, but horrible when minutes mattered. And the flight hadn't been private - Emily had forgotten how little privacy one had on a plane when it wasn't owned by the FBI.

Not that they needed briefing this time. The situation spoke for itself. Their supervisory agent and their youngest were currently trapped in a literal madhouse.

Emily swallowed down whatever statement she was about to make and studied the two in front of her instead. J.J had a phone pressed to one ear, the media liaison muttering quiet answers into the receiver. Derek Morgan was at the wheel, taking on the role of leader for their divided team, his focus dead ahead, as if he actually knew how to navigate Gotham without the GPS planted on the dash. When they hit a red light, he released one hand, running it over his shaved head, the only tell that gave away his worry.

"You know, if Reid was here, he'd be giving us a refresher on crowd psychology," Emily said, quietly.

She saw Derek's faint smile reflecting back in the rearview mirror. Even that gesture was strained, and Emily wondered how long the man would be able to hold it together. She could remember what a loose cannon he'd been the last time Reid had been in danger - the young man was close to all of them, but Derek thought of Reid as a little brother and was always looking out for him, even when he didn't need to...Though, from his track record, Emily was beginning to think Derek wasn't wrong to be cautious. Reid seemed to draw the attention and admiration of some of the worst sorts of criminals, and as someone who studied the criminal mind, Emily knew she should probably be fascinated by whatever it was about him that made him stand out. Instead she hated herself for even thinking about that at a time like this.

J.J. slid her phone shut, turning slightly in her seat so that she could glance back at Emily. "That was Garcia. Believe or not, Batman has her running errands in D.C. But she assures me, we shouldn't worry because she has her laptop with her and can 'make magic happen' from any wi-fi location."

Derek's brow raised. "What?"

J.J. nodded, her blond ponytail bouncing against the back of her seat. "Apparently, Batman spoke to her sometime after we took off, and they determined that one of the contractors who planned the most recent facelift Arkham's received is currently in a retirement home outside of D.C. Garcia was in the middle of visiting him when I called."

"What's Batman hoping she finds?" Emily asked, cutting Derek off before he could begin. She could see from the flash of aggravation in his eyes that he didn't like his favorite technical analyst getting calls from a wanted vigilante, and Emily certainly didn't want to be the one to tell him that Garcia had spoken to the caped crusader on several occasions over the past few months. "I'm sure someone as resourceful as Batman already has the original blueprints at his disposal. Or, at the very least, he knows where to find them."

J.J. shrugged. "I imagine he wants to know which areas have been changed in recent years. Maybe there's a way in the police don't know about."

Derek shook his head, angry. "And it doesn't concern either of you that if he's asking those questions, it's probably because he wants to infiltrate the facility without the police? Or us, for that matter?"

"And you're telling me that, if he's willing to lend a hand, you're not going to take it?" J.J. asked, her voice low. "Because, as I recall, last time Batman helped, he saved my life."

Emily raised a brow, not expecting to hear so much heat in the other woman's words.

Derek let out a breath. "I know you trust him, J.J." He let the comment float a minute before continuing. "No…I won't turn down any help. It's not like Hotch is here to write me up for it."

The fierceness left J.J.'s face, and she slumped back into her seat. "I wish we knew what was going on inside there." She reached up, and Emily was sure, even without being able to see her, that the other woman was touching the deep scar at her neck, the only evidence of the night her life almost ended in this very city. "Victor Zsasz is inside there. With Hotch and Spence." She swallowed hard, her voice clearer when it returned. "Gordon said the cameras in the facility were down, but maybe Garcia can - "

A buzz from her phone cut her off. She flipped it open again to read the text message. "Garcia found what Batman was looking for. And apparently he was able to use it…Derek take the next right. Do you remember the way to the docks from here?"

Emily leaned up, straining against her seatbelt. "What's going on?"

J.J. looked up, her eyes still wide with surprise. "This message, it's not from Garcia. It's from Batman. He wants to talk…Take the left after the hotel."

"You're kidding," Emily said. "Batman sends text messages?"

"Apparently," J.J. muttered. "And he also knows exactly where we are. Comforting."

Derek slowed the car, taking the next turn. "Batman seems to know a lot more than Jim about what's going on at Arkham, too." Before J.J. could shoot him another look, he shook his head. "It's not that I think he's a part of this. I think what he does is dangerous, for him more than others, both physically and psychologically, but that's not what I mean…He knows something we don't about what's going on in that facility. We're missing something important."

"Like why this happened to begin with?" J.J. asked. "I looked over all the info on disturbances in Arkham, including the fire incident that took place last time we were here. Almost every event is perpetrated by an outside force. Chances are, if this is more than a system's malfunction, someone outside of Arkham helped plan this."

Emily cocked her head, staring out her window at the dull gray of Gotham. It was easy to see where the wealth of the city fell away, making room for crime and poverty. This wasn't exactly the best neighborhood for three FBI agents to meet a mysterious masked man, and yet Emily didn't feel any apprehension on that front. Her nerves were entirely focused on the fact that two of their own were currently missing, their status unknown, and, as far as she knew, they were defenseless. The idea that Reid might be trapped in a place with the Joker again made her sick to her stomach, but the notion that someone _planned_ this made it even worse.

"I think you're right. If this was just a matter of a locked door, Batman, he doesn't have all the red tape to cut through...he would probably already be inside that facility. There's a reason he hasn't made a move yet. Maybe there's something, or someone, outside of Arkham that concerns him just as much as what's going on inside."

Derek was quiet, but Emily could see his focused gaze return to the street. "Let's ask him."

She wasn't sure what it was her teammate saw in the dark shadows of the towering pair of storage buildings, but he was already pulling to a stop on the side of the street. None of them questioned the move aloud, or even had time to before Derek slid out of the SUV, his hand hovering over his weapon as he moved toward the small alley between the two aluminum walls. Emily and J.J. followed after him.

They couldn't see the river for the detritus, but they could smell it, fishy and polluted on this side of the city. The area, so near the docks, had probably once served a purpose other than as breeding grounds for crime, but Emily couldn't quite decipher what businesses had once populated the block.

Derek came to a quick stop, right at the edge of the shadows, and Emily took a spot at his flank. It took a moment, but her eyes adjusted to the darkness ahead, just as the Batman took one step forward, just close enough for them to make out the familiar lines of his uniform. For a moment, Emily was certain Derek was going to pull his weapon on the other man, but his body language visible relaxed when J.J. put a hand on his elbow and stepped around him.

"You said you could help?" she asked.

Emily had a feeling that wasn't exactly how the vigilante had phrased it, but he didn't refute the comment. Instead, he stared at her a moment. "Agent Jareau," he said, his voice gravelly. He reached down, pulling at something beside his legs. "I have someone you need to meet."

The pudgy face of a middle aged man came into view as he wallowed at the Batman's feet, blood streaming down from his busted nose, a short round hat with a small brim sitting askew on his head of greasy ginger hair. Aside from the hat, he was still in his Arkham uniform, which was translucent and wet in patches.

The man stared up at Batman, eyes wide with horror, "Twinkle twinkle little bat, how I wonder what you're at…" he muttered, a hard edge to the sing-song words and the chuckle on his lips out of place.

"Jervis Tetch," Batman said. "Former inmate of Arkham Asylum. He escaped earlier today."

Emily straightened, shooting Derek a look. "We heard nothing about a breakout…" She drifted off, then shook her head. "Gordon doesn't know yet, does he? Why did you come to us with this?"

Batman didn't answer her. He reached out, a card between his gloved fingers. "Tetch was wearing this in his hat."

It was a playing card. Without looking, the three agents already knew what figure would be on the other side. "The Joker," J.J. said, her voice shaky. "Then he's behind this? Oh God…Reid really is in danger."

Batman raised his chin. "No - I don't think the lockdown was the Joker, or Tetch's, doing. But the Joker knows out to get of Arkham, and he sent Tetch and others out, with assignments to keep us busy. I also found a picture of Gordon's daughter on this one - he said he was asked take her."

"Why? Why would the Joker send out other inmates? Does this mean the Joker's already loose in Gotham?" J.J. asked.

The Batman was hard to read, but Emily could see the doubt in his hesitation. "No," Emily supplied for him, "he hasn't escaped or we'd know it. He hasn't left because what he wants is still in Arkham."

Derek's hand did land on his gun this time, but he didn't pull it, his eyes on Tetch and a hard frown breaking his handsome face in half. "Then this," he said, jerking his chin at the beaten man, "is just one of his usual games. Something to keep us and every other law enforcement agent busy looking for escapees instead of working on a way to get into Arkham safely."

Emily cocked her head in thought. She narrowed her gaze on Batman. "You haven't said how they escaped. But you have a theory on that, don't you?"

Before Batman could answer, the inmate on the ground let out a gasp of surprise, staring up at J.J. "Alice?" he whispered. "Is it you?"

Batman let go of the man's collar, letting him drop forward in front of the agents. "Do your job. Get him to talk."

Derek scowled at Tetch, reaching down to put the man in handcuffs. "What about you?" he asked, glancing back up at Batman.

Emily followed his gaze, but the vigilante had already disappeared into the shadows, taking whatever suspicions he had with him.


	3. Mad as a Hatter

Hell's favorite patrons had slipped their cuffs and shanked the guards, or at least, that's what the soundtrack would imply. Their cries and screams and laughter echoed down the long corridor, muffled by the weighty door to the room, just enough for the noise to seem distant, as if he were a curious child with his ears pressed to the earth, listening in to the party below - the image was enough to make him _smile._

But he kept his laughter bitten down, caught in the back of his throat and it tasted like gurgling acid, but even that…that _restraint_ , couldn't ruin his good mood. It had been week, _months_ , of boredom behind these bland walls, listening to people call him _crazy_ , and while he was enjoying his current project - the Joker's black rimmed eyes darted up to give Dr. Quinzel an amused glance - it was nothing compared to _this._

This was chaos, and, oh, what a beautiful thing it was! It brought out the very best in people.

He'd heard talk, because that's what dumb animals did when standing next to madmen. They _talked_. And threatened and chuckled and hoped days like today existed only in their nightmares - and by 'they', he meant, of course, the beaten, messy sacks of flesh _laying down on the job_. Or, more precisely, laying down on his bed and his floor while Dr. Quinzel tried to bring them back to consciousness.

A _hee_ and maybe a _hoo_ left his lips like a whisper as one of them, the one he'd taken the uniform from, moved slightly. But that pitiful pig didn't dare open his swollen eyes. He'd been warned, after all.

Where was he?

Oh, yeah - _talk._

He'd heard talk about what was coming. Money. Money was the easiest way to bring a man's monster to surface, and if that didn't work, a bit of violence did the trick. As soon as he realized what the plan entailed, what the guards, and that fat orderly with the happy needle, were being paid off to do, the Joker had smiled his biggest smile - because, hey, it was good to hear his pal Zsasz was gainfully employed once more.

And then he'd told dear ol' Dr. Arkham how very much he'd love to confess to his buddy Spencer Reid where he'd left a few sliced up hobos. Like in most jokes, the timing had to be _just_ right…Which reminded him.

He tapped the guard's broken watch - it had been nearly two hours. That should have been long enough for the others to start making a ruckus in Gotham.

Letting out an exaggerated sigh of boredom, the Joker drew his legs up, the guard's uniform pants stretching uncomfortably, then he jigged his leg, letting his knee smack against Dr. Reid's enough to get his attention. The boy didn't react, but the Joker could smell the fresh sweat from where they sat, shoulder to shoulder, their backs against the wall. Just a coupl'a guys hanging out. Waiting for the blood puddles outside to get cold.

"Well, this isn't hardly as fun as I thought it would be," the Joker announced. "I think we need to take this, eh, party elsewhere, don't you?"

Dr. Reid swallowed hard, eyes flashing up to the woman across the room.

The Joker's jaw hurt from grinning so hard, he leaned his head over, voice at a whisper. "We're ditching the dime, and the guards."

Spencer should have said "no" or "I think it's safer if we stay together", but the Joker could see the thoughts rolling through Dr. Reid's smart little noggin. The kiddo knew, _knew_ the Joker would turn either of those answers into a joke he _wouldn't_ like very much. And poor Dr. Reid still thought keeping the others alive was somehow important to his happiness. Beneath that, beneath the practiced behavior of saving people, was a monster made of instinct. It was the curiosity that ate the cat; it wanted to know how the Joker knew what he did. It wanted to follow and see where the path led. It wanted to see the _chaos._

"Where are we going?" Reid asked, instead.

_That's the spirit!_ "Oh, kiddo, it's, uh, it's a surprise."

The boy swallowed hard again, his Adam's apple bouncing with anticipation, and he gave Dr. Quinzel one last worried glance. The Joker snorted, but didn't bother to assure him she would be fine, because maybe she would, maybe she wouldn't - that was the fun part.

What Dr. Reid needed was to lighten up…By the end of this day, he'd have him grinning. From ear to ear.

* * *

The molded blade skid across the brick, the shiv sharpening with every inch it slid over the rough surface, with ever step closer to the treatment room at end of the hallway, where Carmine Falcone was restrained and awaiting transfer to an interview that would never take place. The boss could have arranged for a better weapon to be left, one that still couldn't be traced back to her, one that wouldn't point in any way to this being a hit, but Zsasz had assured her that it was unnecessary. This, this broken piece of metal that a guard had 'dropped' near him while he was undergoing his weekly exam, was all he needed to take out a pathetic, doddering zombie like Carmine Falcone.

Not that he thought his new boss was any different, any more worthy of living, than her father, but still…he took opportunities where they presented himself. And if it had been arranged that he'd have a way out and a fat paycheck when all this was done, all the better. Maybe…maybe he'd even get a chance to run a slick, professional blade against that giant of a woman's neck once he was out. If the price was right.

Zsasz reached his free hand beneath the collar of his jumpsuit, feeling the line of scars beneath and counting them. Four and diagonal. Four and diagonal. So many filled up tallies, so many bodies he'd left behind over the years, some for work, others for pleasure.

He counted again, tried to find another tally that wasn't crossed out, where he could put the slash that would stand for Carmine Falcone.

No one stopped him either.

The other inmates, they didn't dare do so much as make eye contact as they ran down the corridor, pulling along the broken body of a guard who'd been caught in the lockdown. And they wouldn't try to stop him - they were mad, but they knew him for the predator he was. They feared their own scars being cut into his body, just like the zombies outside the asylum.

He was a few feet from the room when he saw a man out of the corner of his eye.

It was the color of their clothes that caught his attention gave them away, the clown and the boy. Zsasz tucked himself behind a column, watching as the Joker walked, head hunched down, smile on his face, past the corridor, a hand gripped on the shoulder of the skinny young man he was steering.

Zsasz squinted, recognizing that face. He wasn't a patient…No he knew him from the report he'd watched, after he'd been caught. His zombie, the beautiful blonde he'd ran his knife over, the FBI agent that Batman had saved…This was one of her teammates. The one the Joker had taken.

Jennifer Jareau had lived. He'd heard the news while he was being booked for his 'crimes'. He'd seen a photo of her, a smiling zombie, and that boy, another. Their faces. He'd blacked out when he saw their photos. When he'd come to, it was with the booking officer's blood in his mouth and drugs in his system, and he'd taken yet another one-way trip to Arkham.

Zsasz felt a scar across his skin, a slash he'd made with her in mind. It burned beneath his fingertips, and he knew that pain wouldn't go away until he took her life, like he'd always intended.

And that boy with the Joker…He would know where she was. He would help find her.

Zsasz moved out from his hiding spot, shiv gripped tight enough to break the flesh over his fingers, and he followed the pair. His hit would still be here when he finished.

* * *

"This isn't part of your job, J.J. You don't have to do this."

"No, Derek, but keeping our family together _is_ part of my job. If it's going to help, I want to do it."

Derek Morgan sat the folder down on the small table, but J.J. was the first one to break eye contact, her blue eyes set on the fragile mind in the other room. The space they were in was dimly lit, the majority of one wall a wide two way mirror with another, slightly larger and far brighter, area for interrogation on the other side. At the center of that room was a table and sitting at the table was one Jervis Tetch, a gray blanket thrown over his shoulders and handcuffed arms. His hat sat awkwardly on his head, looking as if it might, at any time, topple off. The man didn't look very formidable, but Agent Morgan knew better - a broken psyche could be the most dangerous kind.

"It's hard to believe he was once considered a genius," J.J. said, quietly.

Derek resisted the urge to pick the man's file back up - of course, J.J. knew what was in it better than he did. She'd been the one to compile it. Still, he shook his head. "Genius might be pushing it. This man has suffered a full break with reality." He let out a breath. "But he seems to have a good memory when it comes to those books…"

The door to the closet-like space opened up, Commissioner Gordon and Agent Emily Prentiss walking in, the sounds of phones and busy chatter following them until they closed it again.

"Sorry I couldn't make it here faster - I was in a meeting with the Mayor. You can guess what it was concerning. Three other known criminals from Arkham have been spotted in the city. Citizens are moving past panic and into outrage over not hearing about the 'breakout' that apparently occurred under our noses," Gordon said, patting Derek's shoulder in welcome. It was as close to a proper greeting as he could manage.

"The good news is, the escapees were apprehended before they had a chance to do much harm thanks to a few 'anonymous' call-ins from a raspy voiced mystery man," Emily piped up.

Gordon nodded. "Agent Prentiss was just catching me up on your meeting with Batman, but I'm still not quite sure what he expects you to get out of Tetch of all people. He's probably the most disturbed of the group of inmates who got out... And, frankly, knowing your patience, Derek, I half expected to get a phone call that you were already pounding down Arkham's doors."

Derek gave him a slight smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That's my next stop," he promised. "Batman better send us a text with a plan in the next thirty minutes or I'm blowing my way into the asylum."

Gordon blinked, as if he wasn't sure the other man was joking. "Text?"

"We'll find out what Tetch has to say," J.J. interrupted, sounding more confident than she had a right to be. "Batman wouldn't have left him with us without a reason." She gave her teammates a reassuring glance, then stepped out of the room, reappearing in front of the two-way mirror a moment later.

"Is it safe for her to be alone with him?" Gordon asked.

Derek only frowned in answer. Just because he wasn't stopping her, didn't mean he liked this idea. He had a feeling, though, that Batman had her in mind when he dropped Tetch off with them. _Dick,_ Derek thought, bitterly.

"Dr. Jervis Tetch," Derek began again, for Emily and Gordon's sake, and slid the file toward them. "Formerly a well respected, if socially awkward, neuro scientist and engineer. Tetch had a breakdown after loosing his job, and his grant, due to misconduct, which served as a trigger for most of his personality changes. If you dig a little deeper, you find out that he was recruiting children to take part in his experiment, without parental permission. The parents found out, and they accused him of every crime in the book, including pedophilia."

"Were their suspicions founded?" Emily asked.

Derek raised a brow. "When Tetch was finally arrested and then sentenced to Arkham, it was because he was repeating those experiments with runaways he found on the street. He wasn't convicted of sexual abuse, but we've seen this kind of profile before. If he'd continued on his course, the experimentation would likely have fallen outside the realm of science."

"And his fixation with _Alice in Wonderland_? That was what he was quoting, right?" Emily asked.

"Tetch is obsessive compulsive and highly delusional. And he has an immature self-image, so he feels he communicates better with children than adults." Derek turned toward the mirror, looking at the subject as J.J. took a seat across from Tetch, pretending to study the folder in her hands. He didn't want to make eye contact with Gordon, not just yet. There was no reason for the man to know that the Joker had given Tetch his daughter's picture. Derek knew how he would react in Gordon's shoes; they needed Tetch conscious and in one piece in order to question him. "Somewhere along the line, Alice is the tale he hung on to, a combination of all his characteristics showing up in his rhyming speech, his quotes, his obsession."

"He sees himself as the Mad Hatter," Emily realized. Her gaze narrowed. "And we're casting J.J. as Alice…"

Derek raised a hand to cut her off and then turned up the speaker so they could hear what was going on inside. Jervis Tetch had raised his head at the agent's self introduction, a cautious smile on his face, as if he didn't quite believe what was in front of him.

"Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" he asked.

Gordon huffed in annoyance, but Derek shook his head to keep the other man quiet.

Inside the interview room, J.J. cocked her head, the blond hair she'd pulled down spilling in a long curtain against her heart-shaped face, a thin ribbon acting as a headband. In that moment, even Derek could see how young the wide-eyed agent could look in the right situation. If she were a child, she would have looked the part exactly.

J.J. frowned slightly. "I think you might do something better with the time," she quoted, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers."

The man's demeanor brightened. " _Alice_ ," he sighed, delighted. "I thought it was you."

Derek leaned closer to the window. "She's got him," he said, softly. He felt a vibration against his leg, and pulled his cell phone before it could ring, giving it a quick glance, before rereading the message across the screen. "Son of a bitch," he muttered.

Emily raised a brow at him. "Batman?"

"He's on the rooftop, and he says he knows who started this." Derek chewed his bottom lip, finally coming to a decision. "Prentiss, you and Gordon should go meet him. I'll stay here with J.J. And, I swear, if Batman doesn't have something useful to say, tell him I'm arresting his ass." He stopped Emily before she could reach the door. "Be careful. Batman might have good intentions, but he doesn't do things the way we do."

She gave him an odd look but didn't reply to the warning, following after Gordon.

* * *

For one bewildering moment, Agent Aaron Hotchner lost contact with his reality and wondered if, perhaps, this was a dream. It would explain the distance he felt from the world around him, the sense of confusion laced between his too-vivid, too-alert thoughts. No, this was not some strange nightmare, but it would be a fitting subject for one.

He moved close to the wall, giving enough space for Cash to move beside him, the security guard keeping his head down, keeping his face and the taser gun tucked at his side hidden as best he could manage. They were not themselves, in this moment. Gone were the FBI agent and the guard, replaced by two more patients in orange jumpsuits wandering the halls.

Hotch felt naked without his suit and tie, bare without his weapon on hand, but his anxiousness didn't show on his face. He kept his expression decidedly hard, his brow low and his dark gaze steady on the corridor in front of them, as if the smear of blood on the wall or the fallen, dead inmate shoved in the doorway of one room didn't bother him in this least. He hoped that Cash was able to do the same. If either of them showed fear, played the part of prey, the would never make it to Dr. Arkham's office. And if any inmate was daring enough to actually look past Hotch, to look Cash in the face and recognize him…

Hotch's plan didn't allow for that. They had to move and moving met being one of the bad guys.

A skinny patient with broken teeth and a wild, boyish laugh, bound past Hotch, shoving him into Cash, but the patient didn't so much as give them a second glance, another of his fellow inmates following after him, shouting something about bringing back the meds.

So far, they'd been lucky, and that should have made Hotch feel as if he were somehow winning this, but he didn't. Because, not running into trouble also meant that he hadn't had to save Reid. He hadn't found Reid, or a way to the other corridor. The further he got from it, the emptier he felt. While he was certain the young man was intelligent enough to stay alive, he knew the inmates' actions could not be easily predicted if anyone in law enforcement was found. And at the moment, they'd had no signs of when help would be on its way, but Hotch knew the odds. If this played out like my prison riots, they were likely in for a longer wait as the negotiators outside attempted to come to a peaceful resolution. That was if the cops outside even knew of a way in - Hotch wasn't sure.

Cash's fingers gripped his elbow, slowing him down, and the guard jerked his head to the right. The corridor opened into a false foyer where two out-of-place looking double doors were waiting.

Hotch's instinct was to turn around. He could feel it, in the pit of his stomach: this was too open, too easy a target.

"What now?" Hotch asked.

Cash stepped past him, gesturing toward the next door. It looked as if it could be a patient room, but it was on the wrong side of the corridor and too far from the other quarters. An examination room, then.

"It connects to Dr. Arkham's office," Cash whispered, then moved past him, pulling free the taser. Hotch took the cue, a tube of the guard's pepper spray tight against his palm as he raised his arm, then used his free hand to open the exam room's door.

Hotch stepped aside, letting the taser enter first and watching the corridor. So far, they hadn't attracted any attention, and judging from the noise down the corridor they'd left, the inmates had found something else to entertain them for the time being. He scoped out the room, staring at the dark corners past the examination table, the shadows off the medical cabinet against the pale tiled walls. But it seemed the room was truly empty.

"Where's Falcone?" Cash asked, to himself.

So this was the room where the assessment was supposed to take place. Hotch shook his head. "Perhaps he wasn't moved."

He reached back, holding the door to let it shut silently. Cash moved ahead of him, fast now that they were close to their destination, and over-eager. Hotch didn't blame him. Hours spent weaving in and out of rooms, trying to both avoid and blend in with the inmates, had left his nerves ragged. He was ready for a break as well.

There was another door past the examination room, one beside a mirror that Hotch, seasoned in interrogation, recognized to be two-way. He had to stop himself from jumping at the sight of his own dark reflection. The man he saw in the mirror didn't so much as flinch. It was unnerving to see himself like that. It felt as if something was watching him from behind the glass.

Cash gestured for him to hurry up, and Hotch crossed the room, repeating the same stance at the next door. This time, though, when he opened the door, he was met not with an empty room but the barrel of a pistol.

"Hello. Agent Hotchner? Dr. Arkham has told me so much about you," the shadows said.

Then it leaned forward, and Hotch realized it wasn't a shadow behind the gun, it was a man in a dark mask. A scarecrow's mask.

"Please," the scarecrow said, "join us." He aimed his gun past Hotch's shoulder. "I wasn't talking to you," the Scarecrow corrected, and fired.

Hotch felt the spray of blood on the back of his neck and heard Cash grunt in pain as he hit the ground, but he didn't have time to turn back to the guard. Dr. Crane's gun was already aimed back at him, the ringing in Hotch's ears blocking out the sound of the Scarecrow's reply. Hotch didn't need to hear him to know what was next - two other inmates stepped around the Scarecrow, grabbing hold of the agent and pulling in into the other room.

* * *

Emily stepped out onto the rooftop, somehow surprised by the sun shining down on her. The gray overcast blocked most of it out, but, still, she'd forgotten that it was daylight. They'd been in Gotham for all of an hour, but it felt like they whole day had been wasted trying to formulate a plan. Was this how victim's family's felt? When they were stuck in the Purgatory between losing their loved ones and finding them again?

"I'm going into Arkham."

She didn't jump at the sound of the gravelly voice behind her and Gordon didn't so much as pause, taking another step away from them before planting his hands on his hips and staring at the Batman from over Emily's shoulder.

"About damned time," Gordon replied. "Is there a reason you haven't already? Because Derek Morgan is downstairs, and he sure as hell is going to ask."

Emily raised a brow at his frankness but agreed. Batman stepped past her, closer to Gordon.

"I needed to find out who was behind this and what they were planning before going in."

"Since when are we rational?" Gordon scratched his temple, letting it drop. "I assume you did find out who put this together?"

"Whatever the Joker's intentions were, he wasn't behind the lockdown, and it wasn't supposed to serve as a distraction. It was a means of covering up an assassination." Batman paused, giving Emily a weighted look. "The FBI agents visiting Arkham did trigger this, but not in the way thought. Agent Hotchner had been called in to evaluate Carmine Falcone. The crime boss who took over for Falcone put a hit on him. It's supposed to be carried out during the lockdown. It might already be too late to save Falcone."

"Who put out the hit? The new Russian?" Gordon asked.

"Sophia Falcone Gigante. And she has guards at Arkham in her pocket."

Gordon's eyes widened. "Isn't that Falcone's daughter? How did you find that out?"

Batman didn't answer. "You need to speak to Mario Falcone. Carmine's oldest son. We had a…long talk about his sister. He didn't know about the hit. He's willing to work with the police to put Gigante away."

"If you know who's behind this, then why are we interviewing Tetch?" Emily snapped. "Why are we wasting time?"

"When I caught him, Tetch said something I thought was interesting. Something you'll need to get on record if you're ever going to prosecute. It's about Dr. Arkham." Batman hesitated. "And, I needed your team to stay put while I went over the blueprints Garcia sent me. I know how Tetch and the others escaped, but if a team goes in - "

"More people will get hurt. And taken hostage, if they aren't already," Emily agreed. "But that didn't give you a right to keep this from us. You underestimate the BAU."

"And you overestimate your team's objectivity," Batman growled. "I can go into Arkham and find Dr. Reid and Agent Hotchner, get them and whatever civilians are trapped with them to safety before the SWAT team infiltrates."

"No." Emily shook her head. "You're not going in alone. I might not be objective, but neither are you, so don't use that as an excuse. Plus you're going to need the extra help."

"I don't -"

"You do," she interrupted. "If you want to get back out of Arkham after you get in, I suggest you take me with you. You're going to need someone to misdirect the authorities so you can get back out - places like Arkham don't like to let men wearing bat suits leave."

"And how exactly are you going to explain you being inside to your superiors?" Gordon asked.

Emily smirked but there was no amusement behind her eyes. "I'll just say the Batman made me do it."

* * *

The room was vastly different from every other one on down this corridor, a place obviously meant for both work and pleasure, for greeting visitors and taking notes. Lit with candle light and not privy to the glowing red emergency lights in the corridor outside, the windowless space felt almost gothic. It was an office, walls painted clean, a wide mahogany desk at center, every book on every shelf a bit too straight, every surface a bit too clean, every item in its place and at its perfect angle. It said much about its owner, Dr. Jeremiah Arkham. Who, Agent Hotchner presumed, was the other hostage in the room.

He could barely make out the man's face from his seat behind the desk, tied to the wide chair there, but he could see the outline of his straight, bowl-cut hair, his narrow, sunken face. The administrator was alive. Beaten, but alive, and breathing heavily through the tie being used as his gag.

Hotch was pushed down into the guest chair, his hands pulled behind him. The inmates holding him down tied him in place with something cloth.

Agent Hotchner took in the details, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. Gideon had once told him that the profile, that was his greatest weapon. But the gun in Dr. Crane's hand looked formidable.

The Scarecrow dropped the weapon down to his side, his head cocked as he stared at Hotch through the tiny holes of his burlap mask. "I know all about you, Agent Hotchner. I asked Dr. Arkham who was left in this wing, and he was kind enough to tell me about you and your fellow agent from the Behavior Analysis Unit…What an _interesting_ job you must have." He nodded at the two inmates and Hotch heard them step away, back toward the door to the examination room. "Good. Now, we're all colleagues here. We study the same field, don't we? Fear, and what it does to people," the man finally said, sounding chipper. He reached up, pulling the mask off.

He stared at it affectionately before sitting it down on the closest shelf. "I found my mask inside Dr. Arkham's desk," Dr. Crane explained, as casually as if he'd been discussing the weather. "Like it was some sort of…trophy. I also found a bottle of Scotch I'd bought him three Christmases ago and this." He lifted the gun, smiling tightly at it. "It was just sitting there, waiting to be used. Dr. Arkham hadn't even taken it out when I barged in. And it wasn't because he's such a pacifist, and it wasn't because he'd forgotten about it. Oh, that's far from the truth, now isn't it, Dr. Arkham? No…He didn't have it out because he didn't truly _fear_ me."

He paused, turning his attention fully on Hotch. "What do you think of that, Agent Hotchner? What do you think of a man who doesn't fear someone like me? Does someone that _idiotic_ even deserve to live?"

* * *

It was electroshock therapy.

Spencer let out a shaky breath, wanting to step back out of the room he'd been tossed into, wanting to remind himself that it was actually called electroconvulsive therapy and that it was a common psychiatric treatment, so there was a perfectly logical reason for it being in this wing of the asylum. That didn't stop the blood from racing through his veins, and it certainly didn't stop his first thought from being about the Joker and all the 'fun times' the lunatic could have with this equipment.

"Don't be shy, kiddo. Go on in," the Joker said, reminding him that he couldn't step back into the corridor. The clown was at his back and gave him another quick shove out of the doorway, out of sight from any of the other inmates who might have spotted them.

The space was small as any of the rooms used as quarters, not quite the 'torture chamber' that its earliest incarnations had been, but still, Spencer recognized the table, the charge box. Even the paperwork for an incoming patient had been left on a stool, awaiting attention. Spencer wondered, absently, what had happened to the orderly who'd probably left those sitting there.

The Joker circled around him, hunched forward slightly, his grin seeming to lead the rest of him. He forced a fake frown onto his face. "Oh, you don't think this is for you, do you, kiddo?" He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "Or does this place just remind you of dear ol' Mom?"

Spencer glared at him, but the Joker only found that amusing, a sharp laugh bursting out of him in reply.

"Sore, eh, subject still, I see. Sorry…sorry, kiddo." But he was back to grinning widely. "I got something to show you."

The Joker crossed the room and then Spencer saw what had his eye. The table had been moved, judging from the clean marks on the dingy tile. It had once been over a wide sewer drain. It was an oddity, the side of the grate, square and big enough for a person to fit through, and it must have been an original because he'd never seen one that large used in a modern facility.

"Ya see," the Joker said, stomping hard on it. The metal jumped at the touch, showing that its once-welded caps were cut and loose. "I showed a few pals of mine this place. Heard about it from a friend of a friend," he paused to say the rest behind his hand, "of a friend, who needed a bit of, uh, _persuasion_."

Spencer's brow wrinkled. "It's a way out…the flood tunnels running into the river? But they would have been patched years ago when the facility was updated."

"I forgot to mention," the Joker interrupted, "that 'friend' has 'friends' with deep pockets." His smile widened, and he took a too-quick move up to Reid. "Now, Dr. Reid, this is the part where you ask me why I haven't left yet."

"I already know the answer," Spencer replied, swallowing hard. He took an uneasy step backward. "You want me to go with you."

The Joker shrugged, then pulled his taser free. "Join me or die," he said, then chuckled, lowering the weapon. "Just kidding - no, see, kiddo, I'm going to give you a choice. You can't stop me from leaving - no, you can't do _that_ …" His expression darkened. "But you _can_ choose to follow…Because, let's face it, that's the only way you'll ever be able to keep me from having a bit of fun on the streets of Gotham."

The Joker kicked the grate aside and the metal squealed against the floor. "I'll even go first. Your choice, Dr. Reid. Better make it fast."

Spencer stood his ground, watching the clown slowly ease himself down into the hole in the floor. He knew what this was, and it was no choice at all. The Joker knew Spencer would be able to hear what he hadn't said, that any lives lost because of the madman's escape would all be on his head. That Spencer could have saved people, if only he'd followed - that's what he wanted Spencer to believe, at least.

Going would be giving the Joker what he wanted.

Spencer took one step forward and stopped, a sharp pain shooting through his side. Confused, he glanced down to see a hand covered in blood holding something flush against his shirt. Another arm wrapped around his neck from behind, holding Spencer against his attacker.

"Shh, zombie…or I'll spill you on the floor."


	4. Into the Mad-Lands

"He's an idiot."

Hotch's voice came out clear, hard, calm - the opposite of what he was feeling - and it cut through the space between them as smoothly as a knife.

Dr. Crane cocked his head in thought, as if he hadn't expected an actual reply, then smiled slowly. "I'm glad you agree," he said. "But you didn't answer the question. In your personal opinion, does he or does he not deserve to live?"

Hotch leveled his gaze with the man, weighing his own reaction. His only weapon, the profile, was heavy on his mind. He hadn't fully reviewed Dr. Jonathan Crane's file, but he could remember the basics. Manipulative, remorseless, narcissistic…Dr. Crane came across as a sociopath with sadistic tendencies, tendencies which were heightened by his former place in power over his patients, but he was not a true sadist. No, while some pleasure seemed to be derived by his inexcusable experiments, by his file alone, Hotch could guess that it was the man's successes in those experiments which gave him satisfaction, not the pain he caused his victims.

That was both a good and a bad thing. Especially considering that Crane was, himself, a psychiatrist and already knew where this conclusion would lead Hotch.

"If Arkham had acted, I wouldn't currently be tied to a chair," Hotch answered, shooting the other hostage a cold look that he was sure Crane was tracking. Hotch turned his attention back to Dr. Crane, pretending to give it some thought. "But does it really matter if he deserves to die? His death isn't going to get you any closer to what you really want."

"What do I want?" Crane asked, but the words didn't sound like a question. More like a teacher goading his student.

"To know what Jeremiah Arkham is afraid of," Hotch replied.

Dr. Crane raised a brow, impressed. "You're partially correct, Agent Hotchner - I already have a very good idea as to what Dr. Arkham is afraid of. I'd just like to...bring it to surface. Now, ask yourself how my exploration of the dark recesses of Dr. Arkham's mind require your participation."

Hotch knew there were several answers. Crane needed an audience for his behavior. And he needed a new hostage to use after he finished his 'exploration' with Arkham. But that wasn't what Crane was looking for: "I'm part of the process."

"Well done, Agent Hotchner." Dr. Crane turned his attention back to the desk, pushing one of the candles closer to the other hostage. Arkham's face was bruised, but he looked alert, beady eyes darting from one man to the other. Crane pulled the gag out of his mouth, but Arkham stayed silent. "Dr. Arkham and I are very alike, you see. Or we were, before I was…" Crane sneered at the memory "…apprehended. We're both willing to go to extreme lengths for our work. Dr. Arkham believes any patient can be cured and released back into society after his treatments. We differ in this belief, but what Dr. Arkham fears, and rightfully so, is that the world may discover how _alike_ we are."

Dr. Crane circled behind the man, sitting the gun down on the desk in front of him. "Do you want to tell Agent Hotchner what you've done, or should I?"

"I - I don't know what you're talking about, Dr. Crane," Arkham said, blinking at Hotch. "We are nothing alike, but…but we can be, Dr. Crane. You can be a normal member of society again, if you work with us. Go back to your room and wait. This mess will be over soon, and we can resume your treatments. It's not too late for you."

"My treatments." Crane chuckled, glancing up at Hotch. "And they say _I'm_ insane…Agent Hotchner, how much do you know about the last disturbance at Arkham, the riot that led to the death of the director who replaced me, a Dr. Thomas?"

Hotch feigned disinterest. "Why? Did you kill him, Dr. Crane?"

"He would have deserved it, taking my job out from under me - but, no, it wasn't me…If I'm not mistaken, Dr. Thomas was stabbed with a pen." Crane raised a hand, tapping his chin with one finger in thought. "You know, I don't recall them ever finding the weapon, though. Why do you think - "

"Crane!" Arkham snapped, the sweat on his brow glistening in the candle light. He took a calming breath. "You are a very sick man."

Crane leaned down, close to his ear. "So are you," he reminded. More loudly, he went on. "See, I found another interesting item in Dr. Arkham's desk. A box set for two very expensive matching pens. One is in Mr. Administrator's front pocket. The other, however, is missing. Now, I wonder what happened to it…"

Arkham was all but panting as he shook his head at Hotch. "Ridiculous," he attempted, but the word failed on his lips.

"I think it's time for an experiment, don't you?" Crane reached down, tugging at the administrator's restraints. His voice lowered again, but Hotch could hear him. "You know, I saw you that night, when you released us all into the yard. Others did too… And Agent Hotchner, he's heard enough to go looking for evidence, even if there's not much to find. He'll turn over every stone now. And isn't that what you're afraid of, deep down. Aren't you scared they'll find out your dirty secret - "

"Enough," Arkham breathed, "enough…" He raised his freed hands. They were shaking when he placed them on the desk, the gun sitting between them.

Hotch didn't like where this was going.

Crane took a step away from him. "It's the most curious thing in the world, the way people react to fear. Fear makes us fickle. Panic can cause a rabbit to run from a dog before the hunter is upon it. _Or_ it can cause a rabbit to jump in front of a car at the slightest sound… Fear can save you, or it can kill you. What kind of rabbit are you, Dr. Arkham?"

Arkham stared down at the weapon and reached for it. He lifted the gun, pointing it aimlessly at the doors in front of him. "It was for the best," he muttered, to himself. "It was for my patients."

Crane smiled. "I'm sure it was, Dr. Arkham. And how can you continue to do your best for your patients if you're in a prison cell? If you could kill Agent Hotchner, things could go back to the way they were…or you could run into the road. It's really all up to you."

A timid knock sounded. It came from the door to the treatment room, where the two other inmates had disappeared to. Crane snarled at the interruption. "I'm busy, you morons," he snapped, turning the knob, and then he jerked back, convulsing.

It wasn't until he collapsed that Hotch saw the wires stuck in his chest, leading up the taser gun in Officer Cash's hands. Cash took another step inside, releasing the cartridge as he moved, and Hotch could see the blood dripping down his shoulder, and, behind the man, the two other inmates twitching on the treatment room's floor.

"Bastard's got shitty aim," he commented, kicking out at Crane as he walked by. Breathless, the guard leaned against the closest book cabinet for support. "You alright, Dr. - "

Cash's voice cut off, and Hotch realized the guard had noticed the gun in Arkham's hand, its aim moving from Cash to Hotch, as if he wasn't quite sure where to put it.

"Dr. Arkham," Hotch called, drawing the man's full attention. "You believe in what you do, Dr. Arkham. You believe in treatment and recovery. Whatever happened between you and Dr. Thomas…it happened under duress. If you put the gun down, then we can make sure you get the care you need. You can recover."

"Recover?" Arkham stared blankly at the gun, shaking his head, his eyes wide in fear. "I'm not mad…I'll never let the world think me mad…" He raised the gun toward his head. "Never."

* * *

He was there again. On the conveyor belt in the toy factory, unable to move. The throbbing in his side was new, but the sight above him wasn't. When he opened his eyes, he stared up at the Joker, the clown's painted face smiling down at him.

"We've been here before," the Joker reminded and raised a jagged, metal shiv up for him to see. Blood left the blade black. "Now, how did this little, eh, _scenario_ end last time?"

Then it came rushing back to Spencer - this wasn't a dream. This wasn't in his head. He was on the table in the electroshock room. The last memory he had was of Victor Zsasz, restraining him, then wrapping one strong hand around his neck and squeezing as he asked a question: _"Where is she?"_

Spencer knew who the 'she' in question was. _J.J._ Zsasz's 'one who got away'. But Spencer couldn't remember answering, just the gray closing in from around the sides, and then…nothing.

The Joker snapped his fingers in front of Spencer's face, startling him. "Still with me, kiddo?"

_Zsasz?_ Spencer opened his mouth to ask, but it came out as more of a squeak, pain shooting down his throat at the effort.

The Joker snorted and stepped aside. Spencer's head lolled to the side, and he could see Zsasz laying on his stomach, a small pool of blood gathering right at the top of his crown, where his forehead had hit the tiles. A memory floated to surface, of his eyes opening in his semi-conscious state, of seeing one figure sneak up behind another, swinging something…Spencer noticed the stool laying on the floor beside the serial killer. The attack had been vicious, and now Spencer wished he'd never seen it.

"Amateur," Joker commented, shaking his head like a disappointed father as he stared down at Zsasz's prone form. "If you're trying to question someone, you never _strangle_ them first. I suppose Mr. Zsasz simply isn't the sharpest weapon in the tool box." He tested one finger on the tip of the shiv, made a face, then went down to one knee, grabbing the collar of Zsasz's jumpsuit to lift his head up off of the floor. "Now, eh," he went on, "if you just want them dead, the throat is a _perfect_ place to begin."

The Joker pressed the point against Zsasz's throat.

"Stop!"

The shout burned all the way out. Spencer winced, not wanting to see if it came too late, but the Joker froze in place. Then the madman let out a long sigh and dropped Zsasz back to the floor.

He tilted his chin up, sending Spencer a glare. "Come on, kiddo. Just this one? He did cut that pretty blonde's throat. Remember? And just think of how many more boys and girls he'll carve up if he gets out…" His voice quickened with excitement. "And we're really doing the world a favor, finishing him here. All people like you, people like _Batman,_ do is sweep the floor, moving the dirt around from one place to another. You never really _fix_ anything that way."

"Don't..." Spencer grimaced, sucking in a pained breath through his teeth. "Don't."

The Joker stood back up, stepping closer to the table again. "Are you sure, kiddo? Because it could be our _thing,_ our schtick. You could find the evil doers, and me? I could slice them open. See? We'd all be doing our part." He paused, awaiting an answer, and frowned when he saw the look on Spencer's face. He shrugged. "Eh, well, that plan's too much of a plan for me anyhow, kiddo…But I still think I can make you see things my way."

He pressed the shiv against Spencer's cheek. "Don't you?"

Spencer saw a shadow at the Joker's corner and blinked, trying to clear away the darkness, but it wasn't in his head. Emily Prentiss was standing there, right between the grid and Zsasz's prone form, her gun raised at the Joker's back. One blink later, he could see Batman silently pulling himself up out of the drain.

Emily made eye contact with him, and Spencer shook his head slightly.

"Don't," Spencer repeated, his voice pitched.

The Joker pulled the blade away, another sigh at his lips.

"Oh, look, the Bat's here," he noted, his voice taking on a happy tone. "I knew I smelled a rodent." Then, without hesitating, he dropped the weapon, hands out in surrender, his demented smile folded into a frown. Spencer's brow wrinkled in confusion - he'd expected the Joker to fight, to laugh, to try, and he could see the expressions on Batman and Emily's faces. They were just as surprised.

Instead the madmen only leaned down a bit closer, whispering.

"You should have, uh, taken me up on the offer, kiddo. Because, deep down, you know I'm not going to be behind these walls forever, and when I get out…" His frown turned into a smile. "When I get out, you're going to wish you followed me when I asked. Dr. Reid - _ol' buddy, ol' pal -_ I'm going to paint your name on corpses." He pressed one stabbing finger against the scar at Spencer's temple. "Now, don't go forgetting me," he said, louder, and laughed as Batman pulled him back.

* * *

The mid afternoon sun shined down, casting the silhouette of the Batman in black. He stayed perched on the rooftop of one of the few standing structures left in The Narrows, just far enough in the shadows of the access door that he couldn't be seen by the news helicopter circling overhead for evening footage.

The feed coming through the ears of his cowl was picking up the transmitter he'd planted on Emily Prentiss. The team of agents didn't know he was there, watching, but he had a feeling they wouldn't be surprised to discover that he knew all that had taken place after a team of security experts had overhauled Arkham's network, allowing for the FBI to enter the facility. What they had found was a small group of civilians and their fellow agents, hidden safely away from the smoke and flash bombs and the shots fired.

The process hadn't been quick, but those who didn't belong behind Arkham's walls were finally permitted to leave.

Batman watched as Agent Aaron Hotchner waved on the emergency workers aiding an injured guard before walking back to Prentiss, J.J., and Gordon. The agent was still dressed in the inmate uniform he'd been found wearing.

"Good to see you in one piece, Agent Hotchner," Gordon said. His voice came through clear. Batman could see them on the ground, moving closer together for a handshake. "Agent Morgan told me to let you know he'd be at the hospital. He headed off with Dr. Reid. The EMT said he'd be fine, but you know Derek. Can't rightly blame him, either. The kid looked like hell. You don't look much better, if you don't mind me saying."

"Orange isn't your color, Hotch," J.J. added, a smile in her voice. "I'm glad you're okay. I called Garcia and let her know we're all safe -"

Batman stood up and tuned down the receiver, moving back into the skeletal remains of the building. He didn't need to listen in any longer. He'd spoken to Gordon already and knew Sofia Gigante had already been arrested, her brother's statement being taken in Major Crimes at this very moment. He also knew that Jervis Tetch was currently being prepped for his return…He'd confessed to Agent Jareau, in his own way, to seeing Dr. Arkham kill Dr. Thomas, but it was now irrelevant. Whether it was justice or not, Dr. Arkham could no longer be judged guilty or innocent.

Batman slipped from shadow to shadow, avoiding the slew of uniforms who'd invaded the island. He had places to be, messes to clean up as the local crime families went back to fighting for the throne.

He'd heard, from the tunnels, what the Joker had told Reid, about moving the dirt around. The madman was right on some level…Ten people died in Arkham within mere hours. Orderlies, guards, inmates, the administrator - yet Victor Zsasz and his would-be victim remained alive. The Joker remained alive. But so did Spencer Reid and Aaron Hotchner.

Batman glanced over his shoulder at the asylum. On second thought, perhaps Gotham would enjoy the peace that came after the storm and allow Batman to take the afternoon off. After all, Bruce Wayne had a friend in the hospital he needed to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. I'm not entirely satisfied with this story, but as you can probably imagine, it's left me with several stand alone story ideas connected to what happened in this fic. Sooo, there' s a chance of more tales on the way. Especially one concerning Harlene and why I put her in this story. Anyone have any ideas for a name for the 'verse'?


End file.
